


Until The End Of TIme

by valiantlybold



Series: sing me a song [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Archery, Arguing, Armor, Armor Kink, BAMF Jaskier, Begging, Blowbang, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Branding, Brothers, Brothers being chaotic, Cock Slut, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Communal Baths, Creampie, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Facials, Gangbang, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hair-pulling, Hopeful Ending, Jaskier in armor, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, Knife Throwing, Loud Sex, M/M, Marriage, Massage, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Posessive Geralt, Quickies, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Spitroasting, Teasing, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Witcher training, jaskier thirsts, lambert has an irish accent die mad about it, sad boy hours, vesemir is everyones dad, ye olde medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantlybold/pseuds/valiantlybold
Summary: Maybe they really will be together that long. Jaskier hopes they will be, and he knows that Geralt hopes too.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Series: sing me a song [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603039
Comments: 53
Kudos: 1171





	Until The End Of TIme

**Author's Note:**

> so this happened
> 
> big thanks to the horny peeps in the server for the cheerleading and brainstorming!!! <3 <3

When the first snow comes, they start moving north.

Like an instinct, Geralt can feel Kaer Morhen calling him home for the winter. He can feel it in his bones before he even sees the snowfall. He just _knows_ that it’s time, it’s time to go home.

He wonders how many of his brothers will feel the same call, how many will be there. Not every Witcher spends every winter there, after all. Geralt himself hasn’t been back for a year or two. It’ll be good to see the old walls again, as well as his brothers.

He tells Jaskier about the keep as they ride. Even on horseback, Jaskier manages to sketch out what he thinks it will look like, holding his notebook up for Geralt to confirm or deny.

Riding hard, it takes them three weeks to reach the mountains, and another two days to get to the keep. On the way, Geralt picks up stray scents, spots tracks that were left for the reason of being seen. For him, it isn’t hard to puzzle out who will meet them at the gates.

Once they reach the sloping road up to the keep, Geralt puts two fingers to his lips, and lets out a shrill whistle. A few seconds pass in silence. Then, there comes a whistle in answer and the draw bridge begins to creek as it lowers.

The look on Jaskier’s face is one of pure awe. His eyes shine as they cross the bridge into the courtyard.

When Geralt sees his brothers, he jumps from Roach’s back without a moment’s delay.

“Geralt! Ya white-haired fuck!” Lambert shouts, though with a smile. “Get over here!”

“Ah, shut it, Lam!” Eskel says to Lambert, shoving him as they run. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you ain’t got barely any hair at all!”

Geralt laughs at loud as they meet; he embraces Eskel tightly first, and Lambert next, inhaling their scent as they breathe in his.

It’s good to be home.

Eskel nudges him in the side with his elbow. “Ey, Geralt, why’d you bring the court jester with ya?” he asks, which makes Lambert laugh.

Geralt looks back; Jaskier stands with the horses, smiling as bright as the sun.

“His name’s Jaskier,” he says. “A friend of mine.”

He waves Jaskier over, and the bard pulls the horses along on either his sides.

“Jaskier, this is Lambert and Eskel,” Geralt tells him. “We were in the same cull of boys. Guess that makes us brothers. Or as good as, anyway.”

Lambert snorts at him. He throws his arm over Geralt’s shoulders and takes him in a neck hold, against which Geralt of course struggles.

 _“As good as?!”_ Lambert laughs. “So that’s all we are, ya cunt?”

With a swift move, Geralt sweeps a leg out from under the other Witcher, making him stumble, and breaks out of the hold. In retaliation, Geralt jumps on him and wrestles him to the ground.

Eskel rolls his eyes at them. “Jaskier, pleasure to meet ya,” he says. “C’mon, I’ll show you where to put the horses.”

Jaskier, still a little shaken by _all of that,_ only nods and follows.

Geralt and Lambert are still on the ground when they leave the stables again. Eskel tells him to be quiet and watch, when an older-looking man comes out into the courtyard from within the keep. Jaskier doesn’t understand what he means by that, but goes along with it.

It doesn’t seem as though neither Geralt or Lambert even notice the man as he approaches.

They certainly _do_ notice, though, when the man reaches down and simply takes either of them by the ear and pulls them away from each other. Both Witchers hiss, pain obvious on their faces as they stumble to their feet.

“Geralt,” the old man says. “You’re here for one minute and you’re already fighting.”

 _“He_ started it!” Geralt says, and Jaskier has _never_ heard Geralt sound like a five-year-old before.

 _“Did not!”_ Lambert argues, though.

“I don’t care who started it!” the old man tells them. “I’m finishing it! And if this is how it’s going to be all winter, then tell me now so I can kick you all out on your asses preemptively!”

That silences the both of them.

 _“Good,”_ the man says, then lets go of them.

Geralt and Lambert pull away quickly, both rubbing at their aching ear.

“Good to see you, Vesemir,” Geralt says.

The man, _Vesemir,_ sighs at him though smiles fondly. “You still test my patience, the lot of you. Now, who’s the court jester?”

Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s look of incredulous scandalization. _“Alright!_ Come off it, will you?!” he says, absolutely outraged. “I’ll have you know I’m one of the finest bards to ever graduate the _very_ prestigious Oxenfurt Academy!”

The white-haired Witcher rolls his eyes and rests his arm over Jaskier’s shoulders. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure they’ve heard all of your songs a hundred time, little lark,” he says. “But I can hear your stomach rumbling so I suggest we go inside and find something to eat.”

Jaskier huffs, arms crossing, but his stomach betrays him as if on cue and rumbles loud enough for Jaskier’s own human ears to hear.

Everyone laughs; it’s good-natured, though, so Jaskier feels the urge to smile with them. They move inside.

*

_“Ah! Yes! Yes! Geralt, fuck! Yes! Gods, fuck me!”_

“Shut it, lark,” Geralt hisses in his ear. “Everyone’s gonna hear you.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ I don’t give a shit, just keep fucking me!”

Jaskier doesn’t care about anything, least of all about how any stupid Witchers might hear them, he’s getting fucked _way_ too good to care.

“Knew I should’ve gagged you when I had the chance,” Geralt grunts.

The bard groans as his back scrapes against the rough stone wall; he’s going to have marks all over his back by morning. He claws at Geralt’s back and the Witcher moans at the sting of nails. He reaches between the bodies, a large hand wrapping tight around the bard’s cock. He barely has to touch him before Jaskier’s crying out with his orgasm, spilling himself over their stomachs. He rides it out as Geralt fucks him harder, just for another few thrusts, before Geralt spills with a growl, biting down on the bard’s shoulder.

They catch their breaths for a few moments. Geralt moves them to the bed then, where he lays Jaskier out. He wipes them down with a discarded shirt then collapses with him. They fall asleep tangled together.

*

Going by the colour of the light streaming in through the window, Jaskier guesses it’s just after dawn when he wakes up. Uch, and he had hoped to sleep in a little! Damn that bloody Witcher! Jaskier’s damn body’s gotten used to waking up with the sun as they travel, and Jaskier blames Geralt.

Speaking of the Witcher, the bed’s gone cold, so Jaskier can only assume that Geralt has been up and about for a while now.

Jaskier dresses and leaves the room. He needs to find Geralt and smack him upside the head for ruining Jaskier’s sleep.

Kaer Morhen is _huge,_ and very maze-like if you don’t know where you’re going, which Jaskier very much does not, so it takes him a good little while just to find his way down to the courtyard. He hears the shouting voices a while before coming outside, though he can’t make out what they’re saying.

He only becomes more confused when he does come outside.

Geralt and his brothers are shirtless, and Eskel holds a few daggers in either hand. Then he starts throwing them. At the other Witchers.

Jaskier is quite certain he almost has a heart-attack; at least, until Geralt _catches_ the dagger thrown at him, and does it with a smile. Lambert does it too. And they keep catching each and every blade Eskel throws at them; then, then both simply throw them back at him, as though that is a perfectly normal thing to do, and Jaskier almost has a heart-attack again, until he watches Eskel easily snatch the daggers out of the air.

“Are you lot crazy?!” is all Jaskier can shout at them once Eskel has caught each blade. “What are you doing?!”

They all turn to look at him, then glance at each other.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s a game,” he says.

 _“A game?!”_ Jaskier lets out, a little justifiably horrified.

“Yeah!” Lambert agrees. “Ya win as long as you’re fast ‘nough to catch ‘em!”

“Get slow and you lose!” Eskel adds.

Jaskier is speechless.

“You’re all insane, and I’m gonna go find some breakfast. Please don’t get each other killed.”

The brothers all laugh as Jaskier turns on his toes and moves back inside.

A moment later, he lets out a shriek, as he is swept off his feet rather suddenly. In a blink, he finds himself thrown over Geralt’s shoulder. Eskel and Lambert aren’t far behind, laughing at the noise the bard had made.

“Reminds me’a last night,” Eskel quips with a grin.

Lambert snorts. “Yeah, you were right, Geralt, should’a put a gag on the lil’ thing! Guess I can’t say he don’t have a good set’a pipes on him, though!”

“I’m two floors down and I still heard him clear as day!” Eskel agrees.

Jaskier can feel Geralt gripping his thigh a little tighter, a little possessive, a little jealous that anyone but him got hear Jaskier sing like that.

The bard grins at them. “I see Witchers can be _jealous_ too,” he says, grin widening as the two Witchers look momentarily confused. “Geralt’s getting laid, and _you’re not.”_

That shuts them up, and makes Geralt chuckle.

And as always, Jaskier doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Suppose I wouldn’t mind you, though,” he adds, looking at the brothers. “Great material for a lovely ballad, I would think! _Three little Witcher boys and lonely bard?_ Sounds like a _fun_ one to play at the brothels.”

Jaskier yowls as Geralt’s hand comes down on his ass.

“Don’t give them ideas,” he says sharply.

“But I have _the best_ ideas!” Jaskier argues.

“Stop lying,” Geralt tells him. “Now be quiet and we’ll have breakfast.”

And Jaskier’s filthy little mind betrayed him; he couldn’t stop thinking about these _ideas_ all through breakfast.

Not even as he sat to the side, strumming his lute and trying to write the next verse in the song he was working on, while the Witchers trained in the courtyard could he stop thinking about it.

Because it is a _lovely_ little idea, isn’t it? Now, before Geralt, he had been mainly attracted to women, _though_ he had of course had a very big weakness for tall, muscular men who could probably snap him in half with even breaking a sweat; thus, the instant attraction to Geralt. And _now,_ to two additional Witchers. No, no, he wasn’t _in love_ with either of them, not at all, he couldn’t _dream_ of _loving_ anyone other than Geralt in that particular way. But being physically attracted to them? Well, that was a different story all together, wasn’t it?

So big and strong and handsome and kind and good, all three of them. He could only imagine all the things they could get up to together. Geralt alone could have Jaskier up a whole night! What would it be like with two more of them? Jaskier wouldn’t be opposed to finding out.

They notice him daydreaming, and Lambert comes over to take him by the wrist and join them in training.

Jaskier is most definitely more of a lover than a fighter, but how can he say no to an up-close look at three very muscular Witchers working out without their shirts on?

And things only get _better_ when the Witchers decide they’re finally finished for the day, _after lunch,_ and at which point Jaskier has long since collapsed in exhaustion from the very intense training, and they drag him through the keep to the basement and into the most magnificent bath house Jaskier has ever laid eyes on. The Witchers strip down like it’s no matter at all and jump into the giant pool, and Jaskier stands in awe for a little while, because _wow._

He gets with the program as quickly as he can, though, and climbs into the water as well, sitting down close to Geralt. It isn’t long before he sinks low in the hot, steaming water.

“How do you keep the water heated like this?” he asks, melting against Geralt’s side, face flushing at the heat.

“It’s a hot spring,” Eskel says, sitting across the pool. “Comes from deep inside the mountain. Flushes through here, then out to the river. Water gets cold long before it reaches the river, though, so hardly anyone knows of it.”

Jaskier hums. “I can see why you’ve kept it a secret,” he says. “I know people who’d _kill_ for a bath like this. Myself, among them.”

Geralt lifts his arm, wrapping it over Jaskier’s thin shoulders. “Be nice to have it with you on the road, you’re right about that.”

Lambert chuckles. “Some years it’s almost the only damn thing that makes me wanna come back to this cold shithole mountain.”

“Agreed,” Eskel says.

Geralt leans down. Jaskier smiles when a kiss is pressed to his head. He turns his head up, taking his favorite Witcher in a proper kiss instead.

“Gods almighty,” Lambert curses. “If you’re gonna be knockin’ boots, could ya at least go do it somewhere else?”

Jaskier grins. He climbs into Geralt’s lap, straddling him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to watch?” the bard asks. “I’ve been known to put on a bloody good show.”

The Witchers both chuckle, somewhere behind Jaskier.

“Well, if you’re offerin’, I-” Eskel start.

It gets cut off by a gruff grunt from Geralt as he tugs Jaskier close to himself. _“Mine,”_ he hisses in Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier giggles, and in that moment, he decides _exactly_ on how to get what he wants. He lets out a put-upon sigh, pushing on Geralt’s shoulders. The Witcher of course releases him, though he looks mightily disappointed when Jaskier slips out of his lap.

“I suppose it _is_ bad form to make a mess of the _communal_ baths,” he says as he grabs the bar of soap set aside on the edge of the pool.

He swims over to the wall, where spouts grow from the rockface to spill a light stream of steaming water into the pool. He stands himself under one of the spouts, the pool only deep enough there to reach to the top of his hips, and lets the water fall over him. He starts scrubbing himself with the soap, humming to himself.

“Gods, this water _really_ is fantastic,” he says, letting out a delighted moan as the lather washes off his arms. He turns around to show his chest to the Witchers, scrubbing his torso. “I could stay here forever!”

He _loves_ the way they all look at him.

Once he’s finished, none of them have moved all that much, stuck just staring. Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek then climbs out of the pool. Geralt moves to follow him. Jaskier stops him, though.

“Oh, no, you stay, darling,” he says. “Get washed up. I’ll be in the library, I’d _love_ to see what kind of books they’ve collected here over the years.”

“But I-” Geralt attempts.

“No, no, no, darling, stay! Have a nice soak! Oh, and don’t forget to wash your hair properly, like I showed you.”

Geralt slides back into the water; behind him, Jaskier can see Lambert and Eskel doing their very best to contain their laughter.

Jaskier grabs a towel and wraps his hair with it, leaving the baths as naked as the day he was born.

He hears laughter and splashing water as he leaves.

*

And according to plan, Jaskier continues this.

Yes, it’s difficult for him not to give in to Geralt’s bedroom eyes despite being _extremely_ horny (because Geralt has somehow conditioned him to get horny as soon as Geralt gives him that one _look)._

 _But_ Jaskier knows it will be worth it, because he knows Geralt, and soon enough, Geralt will _fold._ He just needs the time and motivation to properly consider things without rejecting it at first glance.

So Jaskier gives him _plenty_ of motivation.

One day when he’s helping prepare lunch, he _accidentally_ spills a mug of beer over himself; Geralt and the others laugh, of course, but they silence rather quickly when Jaskier removes his shirt and trousers, complaining that now he will have to do the laundry again, shuffling out of the dining hall in only his undershorts.

Another day, he can’t seem to keep hold of _anything,_ constantly dropping things and having to bend over to pick them up; he even slips and drops the stack of books he’s collected from the library, which he had decided to read near the fire pit in the courtyard while the boys worked out, only to have to stoop down to his hands and knees to gather up all his books again. Of course, as expected, they all seem to be more interested in watching Jaskier’s ass than training.

Just a little while later, while they at dinner, something slips off his fork and falls back onto the plate, splattering him in the white butter sauce. He only laughs as the boys stare at him. He wipes the sauce from his face with his fingers, then licks them clean.

He sings all his most _suggestive_ and _naughty_ songs while they lounge by the fireplace in the sitting room in the evenings.

During training one day, Geralt spars with Lambert. Eskel stands to the side, waiting his turn, and Jaskier has another brilliant idea. He skips over to stand next to Eskel.

“Hey, Eskel, can you teach me to shoot a bow?” he asks.

The question very obviously gets on Geralt’s nerves; he fumbles a block and stumbles, but manages to catch himself.

Eskel shrugs. “Sure. Why d’you wanna learn so suddenly, bardling?”

“I was thinking about it and well, if Geralt’s doing all the monster hunting, the least I can do is the food hunting!” he explains. “Be nice to help out, I suppose. And it wouldn’t hurt to _not_ be defenseless.”

Eskel chuckles and gives him a pat on the back. It’s probably a little harder than he meant, since Jaskier staggers from the force of it. Of course, he quickly catches Eskel’s arm to keep from falling, drawing close for a moment. The Witcher laughs and pulls him along.

They stop by the armory and Eskel picks out a bows and quiver. He fiddles with the bow for a while, explaining to Jaskier that they’re made with Witcher strength in mind; he’ll have to loosen the string a little so Jaskier can actually use it.

Once it’s done, they return to the courtyard and walk over to the archery targets set up along one of the walls. With Eskel standing _very_ close behind him, Jaskier learns how to draw and nock an arrow. Eskel corrects him with brief touches; tighten his core, arm a little higher up, back more straight, chin up, hands like this.

It takes him a few tries to even just _get close_ to the target, but he gets there. He’s still only painting the edges of the circle but it’s a start. Eskel smiles and laughs, and pats him on the back and ruffles his hair teasingly.

Geralt doesn’t say anything about it for the rest of the day, though Jaskier knows him well enough to _know_ this is all starting to fray at his patience and composure.

Of course, Jaskier likes to play with fire.

When Geralt is busy sparring with Eskel, Jaskier approaches Lambert instead.

They start off with wooden swords. Jaskier stands in Lambert’s arms, with the Witcher’s hands on his body. Move like this when you do an over-head swing. Hips like this, when you do an under-hand swing. Hold it like that, both hands, tight on the shaft, don’t slip, now change to one hand, whichever is your dominant, grip a little higher up, don’t tense up, relax your shoulders, head up.

Good, let’s spar.

Lambert praises him the whole time and Jaskier can’t stop smiling. And when he trips over his own feet, the Witcher’s fast reflexes catch him easily before he hits the cold ground.

After training, Jaskier enjoys a soak in the baths, along with all his Witchers.

“Eskel, come here,” Jaskier says once he has dried off and gotten dressed.

Eskel, though confused, does as he is asked and gets out of the bath. On Jaskier’s orders, he lays down on the settee just some feet from the pool, on his front, and Jaskier climbs on top of him.

 _“Jaskier,”_ Geralt hisses. _“What_ are you doing?”

Jaskier pours rose oil into his hands. “Massages!” he says as if it’s nothing. “I noticed they were both rather tense, so I figured I’d help out. Is there a problem with that?”

He smiles, daring Geralt to start an argument. Though Geralt surely knows Jaskier’s true intentions, it also most certainly isn’t something he wants to talk about in front of his brothers, so he says nothing.

Jaskier starts with his neck and works from there. Eskel hisses and grunts when Jaskier digs into the particularly nasty knots, but seems to melt otherwise, happily reveling in the pleasurable treatment. Jaskier has to bite his lip every time the Wither moans and groans, and has to think _very_ hard about unsexy things to keep from getting hard. He works down Eskel’s back and his arms, then start again at his feet and move upwards.

Eskel seems like a very content pile of Witcher-shaped goo when he sinks back into the warm pool. Lambert is happy to take his turn next. The process is repeated quite similarly for him as well, though Jaskier has to put some real effort into Lambert’s lower back because _Gods, he carries a lot of tension right there for some reason._ Lambert seems just as content as his brother when he too sink into the pool again.

And to really rub it in, Jaskier pretends not to notice when Geralt gets up to have his turn, instead wiping his hands on a rag and humming as he leaves the baths. Geralt swears, his brothers laugh.

*

Jaskier’s efforts are soon rewarded, though. In fact, just the day after!

They lounge in the sitting room in the evening; Vesemir has already retired for the night, excusing himself but bidding the rest of them a pleasant evening.

Jaskier lays on the bear pelt rug near the fire, staring at a page in his notebook. It’s just this damn song he’s working on, he can’t figure out the right rhymes no matter how hard he tries!

He rolls over on his back with a deep sigh.

“What’s the matter, lark?” Geralt asks from some paces away, sitting in one of many armchairs around the fireplace.

“Rhymes are hard, is all,” he says.

Geralt hums. “Come here.”

And he’s right, Jaskier desperately needs a cuddle. But instead of dragging himself up to walk, he crawls on hands and knees across the floor then climbs into the Witcher’s lap. He curls up against Geralt’s chest, resting his head on the man’s shoulder. Geralt pets his back, his other hand stroking Jaskier’s thigh.

It isn’t long before Jaskier feels something very hard press against his ass. He can’t exactly blame the Witcher. What’s it been? _Three weeks_ of no sex and non-stop teasing? Well, Jaskier isn’t far behind him with the way that hand is rubbing at his thigh.

But Jaskier will _not_ break so easily.

He makes to get up. “Well, I suppose I should tuck in for the night!” he says.

He isn’t halfway out of Geralt’s lap, though, before he is pulled back in. His thighs are pushed apart with a rough motion and Geralt’s massive hand cups his cock. Jaskier can’t help but let out a breathy gasp. A blush fills his cheeks in record time.

 _“Geralt,”_ he says. “Your brothers are here!”

But he doesn’t let up, indeed pressing just a little harder in every slight move of his hand, rubbing Jaskier to full hardness mercilessly.

“Thought you wanted that,” Geralt hisses against his neck. Jaskier lets out a proper moan at that, clawing at Geralt’s shirt. “Isn’t that right? You wanted to put on a show? And with the way these last weeks have been going, I doubt you’ve changed your mind. Tell me I’m wrong, little lark.”

The bard moans again, head falling back and legs spreading wider. “No! No, I haven’t changed my mind!” he whines.

“Good.”

Then he is shoved out of Geralt’s lap, falling haplessly to the floor. He grunts as he falls onto the stones but he _does not_ mind at all.

“Undress,” Geralt orders him.

Jaskier stands up quickly. He watches Geralt’s brothers as he undresses. They watch him intently in return, sipping their goblets of wine. Lambert reaches to the side table and picks something up, which he tosses to Geralt, who easily catches it.

“Kneel.”

Geralt grabs a pillow from another chair, tossing it down on the floor. Jaskier kneels on it quickly, happy to sit between Geralt’s knees, back to the others. Geralt offers him what Lambert just passed him.

A vial of oil.

Jaskier smiles. So they planned this, then. Well, he can’t say he isn’t happy about it.

“Get yourself ready for me, lark,” Geralt tells him.

While Jaskier uncorks the vial and wets his fingers, Geralt undoes his trousers, freeing his beautiful cock. He doesn’t even have to give an order; Jaskier knows what he wants. He stands up on his knees, spreading them apart wide, and leans in to take Geralt in his mouth. He sucks on him eagerly, _hungry_ from three weeks of starving, as he pushes two fingers into himself. He moans around Geralt.

The Witcher lets out a pleased sigh, fingers running through Jaskier’s hair.

“Gods, he really is a pretty thing, ain’t he?” he hears Lambert say lowly.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Eskel adds.

Jaskier moans at the sound of their voices. He really does _love_ having an audience. He tries to show his best material, like he always does on stage.

He pulls of Geralt’s cock for a moment and catches his breath, then he takes it again and swallows down as much as he can. Geralt lets out a broken groan above him, hand fisting in Jaskier’s locks. Jaskier holds it for as long as he has breath left, rocking into Geralt to press him deeper into his throat and working his throat as much as is humanly possible.

It’s no surprise when he is soon roughly tugged off of Geralt’s cock, and instead forced to watch him palm at himself. In only a few moments, perfect, beautiful white ropes of cum land across Jaskier’s face.

Before he can even lick his lips, he’s hauled to his feet and turned around. He pants as Geralt manhandles him into his lap. His legs are pulled up high, showing everything he has to the other Witchers.

“Come on, pretty thing,” Geralt growls in his ear. “Show them how good you are at taking a Witcher’s cock.”

Fuck, Jaskier hears himself make one of the whoriest sounds he's ever made. His hand shakes as he takes Geralt’s still very hard cock and leads it to his hole. Geralt easily lowers him onto it. Jaskier whines, clawing at Geralt’s arms, sinking back against his chest, as it fills him. _Oh, Gods,_ he’s still so tight, even though he managed to take three fingers.

He is held in place, and Geralt fucks into him.

He is _used_ like a toy, and he loves it.

The cum pearls and runs down his face, his cock bounces against his stomach and he can’t rip his hands away from where he clutches for dear life at his Witcher’s arms to take himself in hand. Each and every one of his mean thrusts drives a breathy moan from the bard. Skin slaps against skin. Geralt growls in his ear.

Jaskier tears his eyes open, _when had he even closed them, oh, Gods,_ and he looks up.

Lambert sits with his knees spread wide. He has one hand on his crotch, slowly rubbing himself down through the leather of his trousers. His eyes are fixed on Jaskier. Now and then, he licks his lips. He sips his wine as thought that will quench the thirst he feels.

Eskel sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly, hiding half his face. Still, Jaskier can tell where his eyes are trained; they start at his ass, watching Geralt’s cock pump in and out of him. It moves up, eyes shining while he watches Jaskier’s cock bounces and drip. Jaskier could cum just from the fire he sees in Eskel’s eyes when their gazes meet.

Jaskier cries out, all but fully sobbing.

He feels so full with Geralt, he can’t believe he could ever feel so stuffed, and Gods, the humiliation of _being seen_ while he’s in such a state burns under his skin and mixes with the electric pleasure of _being seen, wanted, desired, hungered after._ The contradicting feelings battle in his head but he doesn’t care; he only cares about the feeling of Geralt’s body against him, inside him, on him, everywhere all at once, consuming him.

“Please,” he whines, breath hitching as tears begin to fall from his eyes. _“Please!”_

It’s all he can say, his silver tongue seems numb in his mouth, he couldn’t form words to save his life.

Geralt hushes him softly, nosing his neck. “My pretty little thing, my good little lark,” he hums.

He stops his thrusting and Jaskier whines for him, why is he stopping? He lowers Jaskier onto his cock then, seating him fully in his lap. His hands move from the bard’s thighs, stroking up along his body, brushing his perked nipples, taking his hands in his own.

“Go on, sweet thing, show them what you can do, let’s see how good you are for me.”

Jaskier whines, chest heaving as he pants. Tears spill down his face, mixing with cum, running down his neck. He shivers as he moves. His feet find purchase on the floor, the stones cold against his burning skin, and he holds on tight to Geralt’s hands.

He moves, he moves as much as he can, but it’s hard, his body feels so weak, the strength has been fucked out of him. He tries to grind down on Geralt instead, tries to clench as tight as he can, tries to makes his body flutter around Geralt like he knows the Witcher likes.

 _“Please,”_ Jaskier begs, looking at his captive audience. “Please lemme cum, please say I can cum!”

His begging makes Lambert chuckles. “Gotta say, I think he’s earned it,” he says.

Eskel hums. “Not sure I agree.”

Jaskier sobs. Geralt releases his hands, instead taking a tight grip on his waist, helping him to move, helping to ride him.

“Come on, sweet boy,” Geralt grunts. _“Earn it.”_

He falls into the motions that Geralt controls, only following after as he leads. He bounces on his cock like all the good whores do and moans like one too. With his hands free, he does what he’s wanted for so long; he runs his fingers across his own face, through the splotches of cum Geralt had given him, then licks them clean, groaning at the taste of cum and tears mixing.

Geralt’s hands tighten around him, his cock pulses and twitches and throbs, Jaskier feels himself being _filled_ and he adores it.

“Well, with that, I think he just earned himself the right to cum,” Eskel says, smirking behind his clasped hands.

 _“Please!”_ Jaskier begs.

 _“Take it, lark,”_ Geralt tells him. _“Take what you’ve earned.”_

Jaskier goes _blind_ as he finally cums.

*

They dote on him the day after; Geralt makes him wear one of his shirts, covering him in the Witcher’s scent, and carries him to breakfast. Eskel has already gathered the best of all the foods for Jaskier, offering him a plate piled high when the bard sits down. Lambert sits next to Jaskier and ruffles his hair, and makes sure Jaskier’s cup is never empty.

He gets to spar with them all after breakfast. They go easy on him, of course, but don’t let him get too big of a head; Geralt helps him with his shooting afterwards, and Jaskier slowly but surely inches closer to the bullseye. Then, they let him try using a real sword, instead of the wooden ones. Sadly, all the swords in the armory are much too large and heavy for him, making them impossible to wield.

He finds a chest in the corner, which is filled to the brim with daggers and throwing knives when he opens it. After trying them out, Jaskier finds that the daggers are much more his thing, rather than a sword. They endeavor to teach him to use the throwing knives too.

Even in the winter chill, Jaskier doesn’t feel as cold as he thought he would up here in the mountains. He feels warm, something deep inside him keeping him flooded with heat. He feels at home at Kaer Morhen. He can’t say why. He feels safe there. With Geralt and the rest of the Witchers, he knows that not even the end of the world could touch them there, within those high walls.

The short winter days pass in a hurry. He trains with the Witchers, he learns to fight and hunt and defend himself; he writes notebook after notebook full of songs. Once they go back on the road in the spring, they won’t go without coin, not for long, not with all this new material.

The nights pass in a flurry of _heat._ He puts on _shows_ with Geralt’s lap as his stage. And for every night that passes, he can _see_ the two other Witcher’s lose patience; he can see how desperate they are to touch, to feel, to take Geralt’s place and _enjoy_ the bard’s company.

And as it always is when it comes to sexual matters, Geralt can read Jaskier’s mind.

*

It starts like it did the first time.

Once Vesemir is gone and they’re left alone, he sits in Geralt’s lap; he feels Geralt’s hands touch all over his body, teasing him, working him up to a bright-red flush and panting breaths.

But just as he thinks it’s going to continue as it always does, he is unceremoniously shoved out of Geralt’s lap.

He falls to the floor in a crumbled heap, but his cock doesn’t seem to mind, still hot and hard and straining against his trousers.

“Go on,” Geralt says, giving him a shove with his foot. “Be a good little whore for us now.”

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, eyes wide. Does that mean what he thinks it means? He glances over at the brothers, then back at Geralt. The Witcher nods at him.

“Show us what you can do with that pretty mouth,” he says.

Jaskier nods and starts crawling. He crawls quickly across the sitting room floor, stopping first at whoever is closest. He crawls up close between Lambert’s knees, looking up at him through his lashes.

“May I suck your cock, Master Witcher?” he asks as sweetly as he can.

Lambert chuckles, patting the bard on the head as if he were a dog. “Go on, little bardling.”

Jaskier all but rips the laces out of Lambert’s trousers in his eagerness. The Witchers all only laugh at him.

Lambert’s cock is about the same as the rest of him; a little shorter than Geralt, but a little thicker, surrounded by dark, coarse hairs. Jaskier noses into his crotch, breathing in the masculine musk. He mouth at his balls, hands smoothing up and down the Witcher’s thighs.

“Come on, bard,” Lambert grunts at him, fingers tangling in Jaskier’s hair. “Haven’t got the patience for games.”

Jaskier heeds the warning tug on his hair. He wets his lips and quickly wraps them around the reddened head, suckling like a babe at the teet, big eyes looking up at the Witcher. Just as Lambert opens his mouth to tell him to _get on with it,_ Jaskier opens wide and swallows him deep. Lambert groans above him. His girth makes it difficult to fully fit him, but he tries his best. He makes it wet; he lets himself drip and drool, slobbering over the pretty cock he’s being allowed to play with.

It felt amazing in his mouth, both a familiar comfort and a foreign stranger at the same time.

It doesn’t take him long to have Lambert on the edge; he wants to take it on his face, and maybe have a little taste, but one look from Geralt tells Jaskier that that is not a good idea. Instead, he strokes it out of the Witcher, spilling him on his own chest, mouthing at his testicles and watching the beautiful fountain of cum.

He presses a last kiss to its head, then moves on.

Eskel takes no prisoners. He grabs Jaskier tightly by the hair and drags him down on his cock, forcing it into his throat. Jaskier hacks and gags, but does his best. Eskel is long and thin, and easily slips so deep; Jaskier can’t imagine how it would feel in his ass, reaching so, so, so deep into him. Jaskier gasps for air when he is let up. Drool still covers his chin and he tastes traces of precum on his tongue; he can’t say if it’s Eskel’s or Lambert’s, and the _not knowing_ drives red hot nails of arousal through his body.

He is graciously allowed to look over his shoulder at Geralt. “Please, please let me touch myself,” he begs, so hard it almost hurts. “Please, been so good, please let me?”

Geralt smirks at him. Then he shakes his head.

Jaskier whines.

A tug on his hair brings him back to his task. Before he is allowed to continue, though, Eskel pets his face and speaks to him in a low voice, checking in, asking if he’s alright, if _this_ is alright or if he needs to stop. Happiness and warmth fills Jaskier’s chest and he gives his ascent.

Then he is takes roughly by the hair again, and dragged back to work.

He is held in place; Eskel plants his feet on the stones, rutting and fucking into the bard’s welcoming mouth. Jaskier hangs on for the ride, sucking and licking whenever he gets the chance; but otherwise, he simply enjoys the feeling of having his throat abused. He won’t be hitting any decent notes for a few days, but that’s a small price to pay.

Like before, he is let up when the Witcher nears his limit. He works Eskel’s handsome cock through the wet clutch of his fist, watching in awe as he erupts.

He’s called back to his favorite Witcher’s side, and quickly set to work again. But Geralt is the easiest of them. Jaskier has had him so many times, he knows everything that Geralt likes, what he wants, exactly how to _break him_ in no time at all. It takes him just a few minutes before his face is _finally_ painted. Oh, Gods, it feels good on his face, _he_ feels good, it tells him he gave pleasure, he gave enough pleasure to receive this, he was given this as a reward for his efforts, he pleased his Witcher.

Jaskier thinks, _he hopes,_ that maybe, _maybe,_ Geralt will be generous in return; maybe he’ll take Jaskier in his perfect hands, maybe he’ll let him have his mouth, maybe he gets to rut off on Geralt’s thick thigh.

But no, he is pushed away.

He is confused and sad, at first. Then Geralt tells him what he wants.

“Give us a last show, little lark,” he says. “Show us how pretty you look when you cum.”

 _Oh, yes, he finally gets to cum!_ It isn’t as good as when Geralt does it, but Gods, at least he gets to have his audience.

He crawls onto the bear pelt and pushes his trousers down, moaning with relief as his cock is finally freed. He takes the drool and cum from his own face, wetting his hand with it, and strokes himself. He thrusts into his fist, body writhing on the fur, the heat of the fire lapping at his skin. He moans for them, he moans their names, tells them how good they tasted, he licks the cum off his fingers, and begs for mercy with a hoarse voice.

Jaskier is given permission to cum when it pleases him.

He tries to make it last, tries to make a decent show, but Gods, he can’t stop himself. It explodes through him like feeling of being punched in the gut; he doubles over, gasping and choking, pleasure blooming in his gut instead of pain. He collapses onto the soft fur.

A few moments pass. He feels himself be scooped up in a set of strong arms, and curls against the person’s chest. He smiles to himself as he recognizes Geralt’s musky smell.

*

“One! Two! Three! Four!”

Eskel shouts, Jaskier moves. Each number is a stance, a certain way to hold his daggers, a certain way to move his body.

 _“Faster!_ One! Two! Three! Four!”

Jaskier pants.

“You can do better! One! Two! Three! Four! Good!”

Jaskier is quite certain he could almost do this in his sleep by now.

“One! Get that left up higher! Two! Feet wider!”

He corrects himself quickly.

“Three! Good! Four! Perfect! Next!”

He sheathes the daggers on either hip as he runs. He crosses the courtyard, skipping over the patches of ice that had formed in the night. To the targets. Bow first. He nocks and draws.

“Hold it!” Geralt tells him. “Hold!”

Jaskier keeps the bow drawn back as far as he can. His arms begin to quiver, he becomes unsteady.

“Loose!”

He lets the arrow fly. _Bullseye!_

“Again!”

Nock and draw.

“Loose!”

_Bullseye!_

“Again! Faster!”

He tries to move faster, tries to be faster, nock faster, draw faster, remember the stance.

“Loose!”

_Bullseye!_

“Keep going! Empty that quiver!”

Faster, faster, faster, keep the accuracy but move faster! Quiver, nock, draw, loose! Quiver, nock, draw, loose! Ignore the ache in his arms! Keep going!

“Next!” Geralt shouts when the quiver is empty.

Jaskier sets the bow down and runs on. Down the line of targets to where Lambert stands.

“Come on, bard! Hit that target!”

Jaskier draws his throwing knives and launches them at the target as fast as he can. _Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye!_

“That’s it! Keep at it!”

Remember the motion, it’s always the same, aim with the eye and throw with the body, eye to hand to target!

“Collect!” Lambert shouts when Jaskier runs out of knives.

The bard sprints up to the target, pulls them out two by two.

“Next!” Lambert adds.

Jaskier hides the knives away as he runs.

Back to Eskel, daggers drawn, first stance.

Vesemir stands with Eskel, and he draws his sword as Jaskier approaches.

“Attack!” the old Witcher orders.

Jaskier doesn’t think, he just acts.

He’s small and fast; he doesn’t have to block, if he keeps moving. And for an old man, Vesemir is still damn quick. Jaskier puts up a fight, but it isn’t long before he falls on his ass, the sword at his throat.

Vesemir sheathes it again. He offers his hand and helps the bard to his feet.

“You’re not too bad for a bard,” he says, and Jaskier grins, even though he’s covered in snow and mud. “At least these useless boys have managed to teach you a thing or two.”

He says it with a fond smile. Jaskier almost forgets to shiver from the cold he’s so pleased with the praise. Still, the snow quickly seeps through his clothes, chilling him.

“You boys all go cleaned up,” Vesemir tells them then, waving Geralt and Lambert over as well. “I’ll be gone for a few days. We're running low on a few things in the kitchen, and we’re in need of hay for the horses.”

“Are you sure?” Eskel says. “I can go, if you prefer to stay.”

Vesemir shakes his head. "No, no, the bard needs his teachers. But no slacking off, or there’ll be hell to pay when I get back.”

“Don’t worry,” Lambert assures as he and Geralt join them. “We’ll take care’a him.”

Jaskier smiles, unable to help the blush that starts to fill his cheeks at the thought of Lambert is obviously implying.

Eskel stays to help Vesemir prepare his horse and cart, while the others go inside. It is an underestimated pleasure to soak in the warm baths after a day of hard training. Soon enough, Eskel joins them as well. Jaskier moves from his seat next to Geralt, to sit with Eskel, dragging Lambert with him too. Geralt snorts, shaking his head. Jealous as he may be, he knows by now that Jaskier will always come back to him, no matter where he may stray for a moment. Jaskier curls up under Eskel’s arm and rests his legs over Lambert’s lap.

“Have to admit,” Lambert begins. “I’m a lil’ jealous. That white-haired fuck over there gets to keep you all to himself, while we have to settle for lil’ treats whenever he deigns to toss ‘em to us. Like a pair’a dogs beggin’ for scraps at the table.”

Eskel hums, caressing his callused fingers down Jaskier’s chest. “Then again, if _this_ is the scraps we get, I rightly think I don’t mind too much,” he says, the smirk audible in his voice.

Jaskier smiles. “Well, I’ll have you know that while I do take Geralt’s wishes into consideration, this is my own body and I can do with it as I please.”

He gets out from under Eskel’s arm. He climbs out of the pool. He shuffles quickly over to the side table where a myriad of salts and oils and soaps have been collected together. After a moment of mulling it over, he selects one of the oils and brings it with him back to the bath. He slides into the water again, back between Lambert and Eskel.

“And right now, it would very much please me to get fucked.” He looks over to Geralt. “Any opinions?”

Geralt watches him with narrowed eyes. “They don’t cum inside you. _On_ you? Fine. But not inside. That’s for _me.”_

Jaskier hums. _“Agreed,”_ he decides, then offers the oil to Eskel. “Get to work, Witcher.”

The Witcher grins. On his command, Jaskier kneels up on the bench in the pool, leaning his elbows on the poolside floor as he bends over. He heard the vial be uncorked, then two oiled fingers stroke down the crack of his ass. They breach inside him with a light push. Jaskier moans; the noise reverberates in the bath chamber, echoing off the walls.

 _“Eskel,”_ he moans.

Warm hands run up his back, far too many to be only Eskel’s. He glances over his shoulder; his eyes roll back in his head when he sees Lambert has joined in. While Eskel uses one hand to keep Jaskier spread and the other to open him, Lambert pets all over his body. They move up his back, squeezing his shoulders as though to massage him, then back down to feel his ribs, around to toy with his nipples.

 _“Lambert,”_ he whines as his nipples as pinched and tugged on lightly. _“Eskel,_ please, I want it.”

Oh, Gods, another two fingers, _not Eskel’s,_ slip into him.

“Look at that,” Lambert murmurs. “My fingers _and_ Eskel’s, you take ‘em so easy, bardling. Greedy lil’ one, aren’t ya?”

Eskel scoffs; Jaskier claws at the stones as his prostate is momentarily assaulted. “Should’a figured that out a while ago, Lam! The way he’s been droolin’ on _three_ Witcher cocks? You bet he’s a greedy one.”

Lambert laughs, his lips brushing Jaskier’s back and his hot breath making the bard’s skin prickle. “Guess we’ve found ourselves the greediest lil’ cunt in all the Continent…”

 _“Please fuck my greedy cunt!”_ Jaskier cries out. “Please give my greedy cunt some cock!”

“Fuck it, get him up,” Eskel says, then. “Get him outta the water. Over on the settee, spare him his knees.”

“Got it.”

Lambert withdraws his fingers, Jaskier whining at the loss of fullness, then climbs out of the pool. Eskel pulls out as well, and Jaskier could fucking _scream_.Eskel scoops Jaskier up in his arms and steps up on the bench. He hands Jaskier off to Lambert like a piece of luggage, transferring him from one set of arms to another. Lambert carries him over to the settee, where Jaskier has by then given them several massages each.

He is put down there, moved and positioned by warm hands until he stands on his hands and knees. Lambert takes his place in front of Jaskier, while Eskel sidles in behind the bard.

 _Oh, God, yes,_ Jaskier absolutely _loved_ where this was heading.

He opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out, and lets his knees slide further apart, back arching to show himself off. Without hesitation, Eskel presses into his hole, slowly, _tortuously slowly,_ and groans above him, hands holding on tight to the bard’s slim hips. Jaskier moans at the feeling; it’s just like he imagined, Eskel’s long cock reaches _incredibly_ deep inside him, it feels amazing, he can’t even put it into words.

Even less so, when Lambert’s cockhead meets his lips. Like the greedy whore he is, Jaskier moans and lets his lips wrap around the blushing head.

His head goes blissfully empty in the blink of an eye. It’s incredible, it’s beyond words, the feeling of having _both_ his throat and his ass fucked at once, it’s more than he could ever ask for. He feels filled to the brim, like at any moment he will spill over the edges.

The Witchers find a perfect rhythm. Lambert fucks into his throat, pushing him back on Eskel’s cock, then Eskel fucks into his ass, pushing him back on Lambert’s cock, and around and around it goes, and Jaskier _loves_ being trapped in the middle.

He feels like he could burst out sobbing when they both pull out of him; the emptiness inside him feels like it will consume him whole.

Then a thicker cock presses into his ass, while the thinner, longer one slips deep into his throat. Some part of his mind that still manages to cling to sanity tells him that they must have traded places, both eager to try him on at either end. Jaskier most certainly does _not_ mind it.

It’s like they said, he just wants to feel a cock inside him, it doesn’t even matter who’s cock it is anymore; his head is too blurry to care.

The drool drips down his chin, he can feel his cock leaking and dripping precum onto the plush cushions of the settee.

He tries to scream when a warm, oiled hand wraps tightly around his cock; instead, he chokes on the cock in his throat. It pulls out of him, thankfully, and allows him to catch his breath. He doesn’t do all that much _breathing,_ though. He cries out, hoarse and raspy, at the feeling of someone thrusting deep and hard into his ass, and the hand on his dick.

“Cum for me, little lark.”

Geralt whispers in his ear, the Witcher’s perfect, rumbling voice sends shivers down Jaskier’s spine.

And he does. It feels like an earthquake in his chest, shaking him to the deepest of his depths, tearing him open, laying bare his very _core._

Distantly, he feels a little bad for staining the settee.

Though, not for long. In barely a handful of moments, a deep-seated _hunger_ flares in his chest.

“More,” he begs. “More, gimme more, please, want more.”

He can’t tell one cock from the other; all he knows is that he gets what he asks for. Someone continues fucking his ass, and another fills his mouth again, and they fuck him deep and hard. There are so many hands on him; they pet his hair and touch his cock and tease his nipples and caress him so tenderly. He feels like an exposed nerve; like they are wild wolves ripping him limb from limb with vicious teeth. Their skin against his is electrifying.

Then there’s cum on his back, and on his face, and he cums too, making even more of a mess on the poor settee.

But it doesn’t end.

It feels like he’s _high out of his mind;_ he’s so hard it hurts, even after cumming twice and being fucked like there’s no tomorrow. He wants more, he needs more, he’ll die if he doesn’t get more.

 _“Please,”_ he begs again when he realizes his mouth is empty. “Wanna be full, wanna be so full, wanna feel so much in me, stuff me full, give two, gimme three, don’t care, want it all, please, please, please…”

Even _he_ can tell he’s rambling but he is no longer in control of his own tongue.

The message gets across, though. They push and pull and tug on him and move him and lift him, then he’s laying on top of someone and their cock is filling his ass up again. And then there’s _more_ pushing for entrance into his hole, but it doesn’t feel like another cock, it feels like fingers, fingers easing him open for more, making sure he can take it without getting hurt.

Time passes but he can’t tell how much of it; he just lays there, his face pressed to someone’s chest, someone else’s hand on his cock again, someone’s cock giving him easy little thrusts, someone’s fingers opening him. So much happens, so much time passes, and then, then _finally,_ he feels something _huge_ replace those fingers, and then he has _two_ cocks in his hole.

He screams. He screams at the top of his lungs, nails digging into someone’s skin.

“Jaskier, sweet thing, little lark, is it too much, does it hurt? Should we stop?”

A gentle hand runs through his hair.

 _“No!_ No! Please! Gimme! Fuck me! Fuck my greedy cunt! _Please!”_

Gods, he’s sobbing like an idiot, but _he can’t stop_ because it just feels so good. He feels so full, he feels complete, he feels like a missing piece of him as been returned and reattached, he’s become whole again. This is bliss. Absolute bliss. He’s in heaven. He has died on two Witcher cocks and gone to heaven.

If he was filled to the brim before, he must be overflowing now.

He feels them in every part of his body. He feels them _everywhere_ all at once. His nervous system fizzles and splutters like a dying fire; all he can do is lay there and take it, and _adore_ every moment of it.

He cums again and his body goes blissfully numb.

*

Jaskier counts the stances to himself.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Deep breath.

Start again.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

He’d never been one for fighting, really; he always much preferred talking and singing and making music, than silly things like _fighting!_

But he knows that he won’t leave Geralt’s side any time soon. Or _ever,_ if he can help it. And he knows Geralt was right, every time he tried to tell Jaskier to stay behind, to stay where it was safe. Being a Witcher is a dangerous life, and being a bard travelling with a Witcher is just as dangerous. Jaskier scraped by before, yes, but mostly through dumb luck. If he’s going to stay with Geralt, he wants to be able to protect himself.

Really, it’s for Geralt’s sake. If Geralt is busy worrying about Jaskier, then he won’t be focused on whatever nasty thing it is he’s supposed to be fighting, which means it’s more likely he will make a mistake and get hurt. Jaskier can’t stand the thought of it, of Geralt getting hurt. He will make sure Geralt doesn’t have to worry about him. He’ll still be the same silly old bard as before, of course! Now he’ll just have the ability to defend himself.

He lowers his daggers and relaxes his stance, as though to catch his breath. Strangely, though, he finds himself not really needing it. Yes, he’s breathing just a little heavy, but…he isn’t tired. Or worn out. He’s been practicing his stances for a few hours now, he’s pretty sure, so it would make sense that he be out of breath. But he isn’t. Strange.

Oh, well, he has been training for a few weeks now! He’s probably worked up some proper stamina!

Either way, his stomach is starting to rumble so he supposes it’s time for lunch.

He looks around, searching for his Witchers. He finds them standing together near the armory. As far as he can see, they all look rather serious about something, talking in lowered voices. Are they arguing? What could they be arguing about?

Jaskier jogs across the courtyard. He throws himself at Lambert, who has his back turned. It makes the Witchers laugh as Jaskier climbs onto Lambert’s back, holding onto him tightly.

“What are we talking about, boys?” Jaskier asks, hanging his head over Lambert’s shoulder. “Looked mighty serious from where I was standing.”

They exchange a _look_ between them. Jaskier is obviously being left out of something.

 _“C’mon,”_ he needles at them.

He climbs and maneuvers and shuffles on Lambert’s body, using him as a climbing frame. He jumps from one Witcher to the next, throwing himself into Eskel’s arms.

“Come on, Eskel, you can tell me!” he says, batting his lashes and smiling. “I’m _really_ good at keeping secrets, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Um, no, that- that’s not it, Jaskier,” Eskel tells him hesitantly, refusing to meet his eyes.

Jaskier frowns. He looks over at Geralt, who looks back at him without meeting his eyes either. Jaskier makes grabby-hands at him. The Witcher scoffs, rolling his eyes, but grabs Jaskier and takes him, like a child being handed from person to person. Jaskier quickly wraps his legs tight around Geralt’s hips and looks into his eyes.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Geralt lets out a soft sigh. “It’s nothing.”

“Liar. Tell me.”

“It’s _nothing._ It won’t be _anything_ until we can talk to Vesemir about it. It’s nothing to worry about. Just forget it.”

Jaskier unhooks his legs and falls on his feet, standing on his own again. He glares at Geralt.

“I can tell you’re lying to me, and I don’t appreciate it. Tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” the Witcher argues.

“Then _why_ won’t you tell me?” Jaskier retorts. “If it’s _nothing,_ then it won’t matter if you tell me, will it? So tell me!”

“I won’t matter if I _don’t_ tell you!”

Jaskier sighs. “I can’t _believe_ you!" he says. “I can’t believe you’re doing this! _Why_ are you doing this? Can’t you just tell me?! What is it you’re hiding from me?”

“I’m not _hiding_ anything,” Geralt attempts to calm. “I promise, I’m not hiding _anything,_ alright? Just- It isn’t important.”

This is obviously going _nowhere,_ and Jaskier is _starving,_ so fuck this.

He turns and walks away, shoving past Eskel and Lambert on the way.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts after him.

The bard pretend not to hear it.

He sulks in the kitchen, sipping on a bottle of wine and biting into a loaf of half-stale bread.

How is it, that Geralt can make him _so happy_ but also _so angry?_ Why wouldn’t he just _tell_ Jaskier what’s going on? He and his brothers were obviously talking about something serious, going by the looks on their faces. He could have just _told_ Jaskier and he would do his best to help figure out a solution to whatever problem they were having.

In the middle of his sulking, the kitchen door opens. He frowns when it’s Geralt who enters. If it had been either of the other two, he might have been able to get them talking without too much trouble. But Geralt? If Geralt doesn’t want to tell, Jaskier won’t be able to get him to talk.

Geralt pulls up a chair.

“It’s about you,” is all he says.

Jaskier doesn’t understand. “What does that mean?”

“We were talking about you.”

The bard scoffs. “All the more reason to tell me what _the fuck_ is going on, Geralt. I won’t be lied to. I won’t let you hide things from me. _I won’t stand for it,_ Geralt. We’re supposed to be in this bloody relationship _together,_ so why can't you just _trust me?”_

The Witcher takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just... I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, you _hiding things_ from me makes me _worry,_ so you failed on that.”

Geralt nods. “I know. It’s... I think it’s the wish I made.”

Jaskier turns to look at him. “What? What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, but Eskel and Lambert noticed it too. You’re...fast. Faster than you were before. Faster than-... Than regular humans. And your stamina, too. Haven’t you noticed? Just yesterday. First you kept up with Vesemir in a fight, for a while at least. Then in the baths, you were still hard and begging for more after _three_ orgasms, when before, just _one_ put you out of commission for at least half an hour. Something is going on. And it worries me.”

Jaskier is…speechless. Honestly. He…isn’t quite certain of what to say.

“I think it’s my wish. I… I asked the djinn to tie you to me. I wanted you to be with me for as long as I live. And now I’m afraid that-”

He has to stop. He has to stop so he can take a breath, his voice faltering for a moment. Jaskier sets the bread and the wine to the side. He takes Geralt’s hand in his own, and holds it tight.

“I’m afraid that my wish will turn you into one of us.”

“What?”

“That it will give you the mutations. Make you faster, stronger, extend your life.”

“But…wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“No. No, the- the mutations, they’re… They’re more painful than I could ever put into words. Being given them, it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever been through. And I-”

He has to swallow again.

“I can’t stand by and watch you go through that.”

Jaskier takes him in his arms.

*

When Vesemir comes back a few days later, Geralt pulls him aside immediately. They leave Eskel and Lambert to handle the horse and the cart-full of supplies.

They go into the basement, to Vesemir’s quarters and the small study attached to it. Jaskier holds Geralt’s hand as the Witcher explains the situation from the start. He explains about looking for the djinn and how he found it, about his stupid thought being turned into a stupid wish, and Yennefer and the debt he still owed her, and finally, about his last wish.

Then, he explains what they suspect, what they fear, is happening.

Through it all, Vesemir says nothing. He only listens. When it’s over, he sighs.

“You _idiot_ of a boy,” he says. “We don’t meddle with djinn. Have you no _sense?”_

Geralt nods. “I know. You can shout at me about it later. For now, my only worry is Jaskier.”

The older Witcher hums, fingers running along his whitened mustache.

“I don’t know much about the mutations. I’m only a fencing teacher. I never had anything to with administering the trials, creating the mutations, any of it. _But_ I know there should be tests. Simple ones. Test his blood, see if it contains the mutations. Suppose that will tell us how to proceed.”

Jaskier nods. “I’ll do anything. I-I-I don’t think I’d mind the mutations. _Having them,_ I mean. But…it would be good to know for certain, either way.”

“I agree. Come. Follow me to the hospital wing. We should be able to do the tests right away.”

They move swiftly through the keep. Jaskier holds on tight to Geralt. They’re both tense. Who knows what all this could mean? It’s almost too much for Jaskier to wrap his head around.

Once in the hospital wing, Vesemir draws Jaskier’s blood with a needle, then pours it into a vial. He sets vial above a small flame and allows it to begin to bubble. He pours in drops of many different liquids, then takes a needle and dips it in the blood. He lets a drop of blood fall onto a small slate of glass, then places another slate on top of it. Pressing the two slates together, he holds them up the light, looking into the blood.

Geralt and Jaskier wait with bated bated breath.

Vesemir hums.

He sets the slates aside, then lets out a new drop on a new slate. He holds it up to the light all the same. He hums again. He digs into a drawer of the desk he’s working at, and finds a loupe, which he uses to look closer at the drop.

He lowers both the loupe and the slates, turning back to Geralt and Jaskier. He looks… Well, his expression is quite unreadable, actually.

“Traces,” he says.

“What?” Geralt says. “What do you mean _traces?”_

“Traces of them. The mutations. It’s hard to explain, but… His blood. It doesn’t look like _human_ blood, nor does it look like _Witcher_ blood. It… It’s almost a mix of them. There are signs of mutations, but it’s as though they haven’t quite taken hold.”

“Does… Does that mean they _will_ take hold? Change me?” Jaskier asks softly.

Vesemir shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anything like this. At the moment, all I can tell you is that we will have to wait and see. Perhaps they will take hold. Perhaps they will change you, make you like us. But maybe they won’t. Maybe your immune system will kill them off, and you return to being fully human. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

Jaskier swallows. It feels like there’s a knot in his throat. He doesn’t know what to feel. Nothing seems like the right reaction.

He turns to Geralt. He tries to step into his arms, but the Witcher stops him. He pushes Jaskier gently away. Jaskier looks at him, confused.

Geralt seems unable to look at him again. He turns away. He leaves. He walks away and slams the door behind him.

Jaskier is frozen in place. He- He doesn’t- What is-

Vesemir’s hand lands softly on his shoulder, making him turn. “Give him a moment,” he says, almost pleading. “He thinks _he_ did this to you. He just... Give him a little time.”

The bard swallows again. He blinks away the tears and nods.

“S-So, um, so what now? What can we do?”

The Witcher hums again as he steps back towards the desk. “Until we know for certain either way, there isn’t much to be done. I’d suggest taking the test every few days. Look for changes. If we know which way the scales are tipping, we can prepare for the outcome.”

“And...what if I start to change? Becoming like you? What then? Could I-... Does it mean _I could die?_ I-I-I know most children don’t survive the trials. The mutations.”

“I honestly don’t know. If you are tied to Geralt, to his life-force, perhaps the mutations come from him. Perhaps they are bleeding into you to fulfill his wish, to keep you alive. Then you may survive simply because _he_ survived. Because his life-force _keeps_ you alive. But...I don’t know. I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

*

Geralt doesn’t come to bed. Jaskier lays awake for most of the night, waiting, but he never comes.

It worries Jaskier.

Where could Geralt have gone? Lambert said he’d seen Geralt storm out of the keep, grabbed Roach and ridden out without a word, not answering when Lambert had tried to talk to him. He hasn’t come back yet.

Jaskier crawls out of bed. He can’t sleep like this.

He paces through the keep restlessly. The keep has never seemed smaller than it does now. He paces through the same hallways a hundred times.

He decides to try the library. Perhaps reading for a bit will help put him to sleep.

He's surprised to find Eskel there, sitting near the fire with a book in his lap.

“Hey," the Witcher says softly. “How are you?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Wishing Geralt was here. Always makes me feel better to be held by him.”

Eskel nods. “I can’t promise it’ll help, but if you’d like to give it a try, I’d be glad to hold ya for a while.”

Jaskier tries to smile. It’s a sweet gesture. He shuffles over and climbs into the Witcher’s lap. Eskel’s arm wraps around him and he places the book on Jaskier’s thigh to keep reading. Jaskier doesn’t mind. He’s just glad to be held.

It’s comforting to feel another person so closely. It hurts that it isn’t Geralt, but for now, he supposes Eskel will have to suffice. It feels mean to think like that when Eskel is being so kind but he can’t help it. No matter what, Jaskier would always rather have Geralt.

It doesn’t quite register with Jaskier that he falls asleep. It isn’t until he wakes up alone in Geralt’s bed that he realizes that, at some point, he _must_ have passed out.

He leaves bed fully expecting Geralt not to be back yet. But of course, Geralt does seem to have a fondness for surprising him. The Witcher sits with his brothers and mentor, when Jaskier gets to the dining hall for breakfast. He gets up immediately and all but runs to Jaskier, wrapping him tightly in his arms.

Jaskier will yell at him later; for now, he allows himself to be held.

*

Training becomes more intense after that.

They test him relentlessly. Is he faster than a human? Is he as fast as a Witcher? Is he stronger than a human, as strong as a Witcher? How is his stamina? Can he see in the pitch black? Can he hear a whisper from across the courtyard?

Every day, they test him. And once those tests are done, he goes to the hospital wing with Vesemir to test his blood again.

There appears to be no change.

He is a little faster, a little stronger, has a little more endurance, but not on the same level as a Witcher. His eyes are not like theirs, nor are his ears. His heart still beats like that of a human, fast and fluttering.

“What will happen if I mutate? If I survive it?” Jaskier asks as they sit at dinner.

The brothers are quiet; Eskel and Lambert glance at each other then stare down at their plates, Geralt’s knuckles go white as he grips his fork tighter but says nothing.

“You will be initiated into the School of the Wolf. You won’t be a Witcher, per se. You haven’t had the training, the teachings, for it,” Vesemir tells. “But you will be one of us. In name, you will be a Witcher. You will carry a medallion. A steel blade and a silver blade. Kaer Morhen will be your home. You won’t be subject to any king or politician. But you won’t be allowed to take contracts, or do work as a Witcher. As I said, it will be in name only.”

Jaskier swallows. He tries to smile and lighten the mood. “Oh, good! I can offend as many people as I like with my raunchy songs and not be thrown in prison for it!”

Vesemir chuckles, Eskel and Lambert snort and laugh; it warms Jaskier to see that even Geralt manages to smile at it.

As the days go on, it becomes obvious that the mutations are growing.

It is not yet visible in his appearance; he doesn’t have the eyes of a cat, nor has his hair paled like Geralt’s. Still, he grows slowly stronger, becomes faster, he can train for longer periods of time.

Geralt panics when he wakes up one day and can’t hear Jaskier’s heart beat. He shakes Jaskier awake, upon which the bard’s heart-rate returns to normal. They monitor it. When he relaxes, as he does while sleeping, his heart slows to match that of a Witcher. Yet it remains humanly rapid when he is awake. Vesemir hypothesizes that his body is attempting to adjust to it, but that it is not yet ready to have this be his normal rhythm. They continue to monitor it. Wherever he goes, the Witchers remained attuned to the sound of his heart, listening to for any change.

Jaskier still feels no different. He still feels like his same old self.

*

He sinks onto Lambert’s cock with a pleased sigh.

There’s nothing better after a day of training and composing, than a good fuck.

He rides the Witcher slowly as the other two watch. Lambert’s hands stay on Jaskier’s hips at first, but move freely soon enough. They stroke down his thighs and fondle his balls and tug on his cock, then move up his sides and his belly and his back, feeling him all over. They pinch at his nipples, making his sigh with pleasure. He moans when one hand wraps around his throat.

“Fuck, yes,” the bard pants, grinding down on the Witcher’s cock. “Fuck, cum inside me, all of you, wanna feel you all inside me, want to be filled with you.”

Geralt and Eskel sit a distance away; Jaskier watches them tug on their own cocks, waiting their turns, waiting for Jaskier to come take care of them.

“Want to feel all my lovely Witchers inside me,” he adds. “C’mon, Lam, come inside me!”

He bounces himself on the Witcher’s dick, rolling into it, feeling its girth stretch him; he _loves_ that, he _loves_ having _barely_ prepared himself and _feeling_ every inch of it inside him. He adores the feeling of being filled, of being just a little too tight but stuffed full anyway.

Fuck, he wants to take two again, wants to be _aware_ of it this time; last time he’d been so lost in the fog of sex that it barely registered with him at all. He wants to feel every single moment if it this time.

Lambert’s hand grab at his hips again, guiding his rhythm, has him speeding up, riding harder. Jaskier falls into it, lets himself be showed what to do. Beneath him, Lambert falls apart. He goes from mumbled curses to wordless groans as Jaskier fucks himself on him.

The Witcher cums with a final, drawn out groan, pulling Jaskier down on his cock, holding him in place. Jaskier’s own hand goes to his cock too, pumping himself hard. He moans at the feeling of Lambert’s cock pulsing inside him, pumping cum into him, and joins in. He sprays white ropes across the sitting room floor.

Before, his orgasms had been _overwhelming;_ they knocked every bit of sense out of him and left him boneless and tired. But now, his first orgasm of the night was like the first drink of the night. It took the edge off, it made his thirst flare and grow, he wanted _more._ That may be the best part of this whole _mutations_ thing. He could keep up with his Witchers.

Jaskier climbs off Lambert’s lap and goes straight for Eskel, climbing up to straddle him. He sinks onto the Witcher’s cock with a moan and wastes no time; he sets a rapid pace, staring into Eskel’s eyes as he takes him. _Fuck,_ he feels like a used whore; well-fucked, slicked by oil and cum, already climbing onto another cock, his appetite unending.

Eskel slaps both his hands down across Jaskier’s ass; the bard cries out. Geralt growls, _no one gets to treat his bard like that,_ but settles again, when he hears what Jaskier thinks of it.

 _“Yes!_ Fuck! Again! Do it again!” the bard orders, holding on tight to Eskel’s shoulders. “Spank me again!”

Eskel grins and does what he’s asked. They come with varying force; some harder, some lighter, some right in-between, and Jaskier moans at every single one of them. His ass must be going red as a rose, his skin feels like it’s boiling, and every time Eskel gives him a soft little caress between spanks, Jaskier shudders to his core.

“Tell me how bad you want it, bardling,” Eskel says to him. “Tell me how bad you want me to cum inside you. Be a good lil’ whore now, sweet thing.”

Jaskier leans in, claiming him in a kiss, taking him off guard enough to _own_ the kiss, to _own_ Eskel’s mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, and cum inside me, Witcher,” Jaskier tells him as he pulls back. “-or I’m getting off your cock right this second and you can take care of yourself.”

Eskel chuckles at him. _“Yessir,”_ he teases, pinching Jaskier in the side playfully.

It makes Jaskier giggle too, even as he leans back to find better leverage. With the new angle, both he and Eskel fall apart together soon enough. Jaskier sullies the Witcher’s shirt, while the Witcher sullies Jaskier’s insides.

Oh, Gods, yes, he can feel it dripping down his thighs as he climbs off Eskel, he feels both Lambert and Eskel dribbling out of him and sliding lazily down the insides of his thighs, the feeling of fullness echoing in him.

Geralt eagerly awaits him, and Jaskier is always happy to receive him. He’s always happy to feel his _most_ beloved Witcher press into him. The other Witchers are good, they’re decent, but nothing beats Geralt. _Nothing_ beats the feeling of _Geralt_ entering him.

They move together. Geralt moves with him, instead of leaving him to do all the work. He wraps his arms tightly around Jaskier, and kisses him, and finds the rhythm that Jaskier decides and falls easily into it with him, following his lead.

“Geralt,” Jaskier pants against the Witcher’s lips. “Oh, Geralt, I love you so much, please, give it to me, fill me with it, let me feel you.”

Geralt nods, hands finding purchase on Jaskier’s poor, beaten ass. “Love you too, little lark, just wait, you’ll have it, just wait.”

The orgasm takes Geralt by surprise, if how is eyes widen are anything to go on. His thrusts stagger but Jaskier pushes down against him, making sure he leaves his cum as deep inside as possible.

“Take me to the rug, darling,” Jaskier says. “Take me to the rug and lay me down and someone stick another cock in me, I want two, please, wanna feel two, Geralt, I want another one.”

Fingers run through his hair, pushing back his sweat-matted hair. “Are you sure, lark? You don’t want to take a break?”

Jaskier shakes his head, hugging Geralt tighter. “No, I want it. I wanna be so full.”

Then he’s being picked up. Geralt walks them both over to the bear pelt by the fire, where he manages to lay himself down and place Jaskier on top of him.

First come, first serve; Eskel and Lambert push and shove at each other to get there first. Jaskier grabs the closest one and pulls him away, taking him into his mouth as soon as he’s within reach. He doesn’t even have to look; from just the swell of the head, the feeling of the thick vein along its underside, Jaskier can tell he caught Lambert.

He sits pretty on Geralt’s cock, sucking on Lambert, while Eskel works cum-slicked fingers into Jaskier’s hole to stretch him further. He moans around Lambert, eyes rolling back. Fuck, it's already so good, _and_ he gets to have one in his mouth too.

“Fuck, look at this sloppy little hole,” Eskel mutters behind him, his fingers working fast. “Just so hungry for it, aren’t you, pretty boy?”

Jaskier tries to nod even as he sucks greedily on Lambert’s cock. He lets up, panting for air. _“C’mon,_ feed my greedy cunt!” he begs.

Lambert and Geralt both chuckle at him. “Think he’s earned it, don’t you, Lam?” Geralt suggests.

“He sure has,” Lambert agrees.

 _“Please!”_ Jaskier pleads again before diving back onto Lambert’s pretty dick.

He moans again, eyes rolling back once more, when he feels Eskel’s fingers withdraw and be replaced by his cock. It slides into him easily, and he just can’t believe how it can possibly fit inside him _with Geralt already in there._ He feels so tight around them, like he’s being split in half on them, they just make him _so full._ It’s incredible, it’s beyond words.

He chokes on a groan when they start moving. Geralt rutting up into him, Eskel fucking into him, and oh, Gods, Lambert grabbing him by the hair to hold him steady and fucking his throat.

Jaskier shut his eyes and lets it happen, lets them use him, lets himself enjoy it.

He never wants this to end, he wants it to keep going forever. The pleasure _burns_ inside him in the most perfect way. He feels like he’s about to burst with how good he feels.

He cums again, between his and Geralt’s chests, the cum dripping to strain the rug.

Lambert cums soon as well; he floods Jaskier’s throat with inhuman amounts of cum, making him choke and cough as he tries to swallow it down. The way he unconsciously clenches and flutters around the other Witchers must be what does them in too. Within moments of each other, he feels them pump him full and the feeling is _incredible._

Jaskier collapses against Geralt’s chest, panting for air.

Gods, they all need another bath.

*

Jaskier pulls with all his might, he pulls as hard as possibly could.

Still, he can only draw an unaltered bow halfway back.

He lets go of the string, and breathes hard. His muscles ache from the effort.

“You’re almost there,” Geralt tells him reassuringly. “You’ve already pulled it further than any human normally could.”

“Suppose that _does_ make me feel a little better,” Jaskier admits. “Show me again.”

He hands the bow to Geralt, who pulls it back without issue. Jaskier sighs. Okay, he no longer feels better about it. He still has _so far_ to go before he can pull it that far back.

“You’ll get there soon.” Geralt says, lowering the bow. “You’re getting stronger. It won’t be long before you can do it.”

Jaskier sighs and nods.

“Geralt! Jaskier!”

They both look up. Vesemir called them on his way to the fire-pit, where he stops. With him, Eskel and Lambert follow as well, carrying a chest between the two of them. Geralt and the bard jog over to meet them.

“What is it, Vesemir?” Geralt asks, already worrying. “Is something wrong? Is it the blood test?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not it, don’t give yourself heart-attack,” he says, teasing, as he smiles. “I have something for everyone’s favorite bard.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “For _me?”_ he lets out, shocked. “Oh, no, no, I can’t accept anything more! Everything you’ve done for me already, letting me stay here, teaching me, the tests and everything, I could never repay you for that alone! Accepting anything more would-”

Vesemir silences him with a raised hand. “Nonsense,” he says. “Open the chest.”

Jaskier swallows. He kneels by the chest and undoes the clasps that keep the lid shut. He is surprised when he opens it.

His eyes go wide again.

“What is all this?”

“It’s yours,” Vesemir says.

Jaskier lifts up the chest armor. It looks similar to Geralt’s, but smaller, to fit Jaskier, and it seems thinner and more malleable.

“It should fit you well enough,” Eskel tells him. “If not, I know a good few armorers who can help to get it fitted.”

“You’ve got your spaulders, vambraces, greaves, and a good set’a gloves in there too,” Lambert adds. “Figure you mightn’t be huntin’ monsters, but if you’re travellin’ with a Witcher, you oughta have a good set’a armor of your own.”

Jaskier stares at the armor. “Where did you get all this? It must have cost you a fortune! I-I-I don’t know if I can take all this.”

“Don’t be daft!” Lambert teases him. “All we did was dig through the old armory! Found ya some bits that looked like they’d fit, that’s all. Gods know how long they’ve been layin’ about gatherin’ dust in there.”

The bard takes a deep breath. Well… As long as it didn’t cost them any coin, he supposes. He really couldn’t have accepted it, if they spent Gods know how much coin on him.

“Thank you so much,” Jaskier says as he places the chest armor back into the box.

He closes and clasps the lid gently, running his hands over the old wood.

“C’mon, stand up,” Vesemir tells him.

Jaskier jumps to his feet. Oh, Gods, are there more gifts? He’s so bad at accepting gifts, he always feels undeserving!

Eskel hands him a dagger and sheath. Lambert offers another. Jaskier takes them both, confused.

“One for monsters, one for men,” Vesemir says, gravely, seriously, his voice heavy with the weight of the words.

He holds his hand out, showing the wolf medallion he had brought. He takes it by the chain and hangs it around Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier’s eyes water.

“And this,” Vesemir says, tapping his finger on the medallion where it lays against Jaskier’s chest. “-for the wisdom to know which is which.”

He feels Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze, letting him know he’s there with him.

“You are one of us. Not only because of the mutations that are appearing in you, but also because of what you share with Geralt. You are welcome into this home.”

Jaskier is out-right sobbing.

Vesemir breaks his serious exterior, letting slip a proud smile. Jaskier throws himself at the old man and hugs him tight. Vesemir laughs but hugs him back, patting him on the back. Jaskier hugs everyone and drips snot on them while he does it, but no one seems to mind it; they all are too happy and proud to notice, and Jaskier can’t remember the last time he felt this _welcome_ in any place in the world.

“We are your family now,” Vesemir says, as Jaskier weeps into Geralt’s shoulder. “And you, are our family.”

Jaskier looked around at them all.

_This is his family now._

It takes him a bit of time to settle down; the tears and the hugs just don’t seem to stop.

Once it’s over, though, he is eager to try on his new armor. He doubts he’ll have much use for it, but he wants to know how to put it on and move with it and how to take it off, _should he ever need to use it._ It’s best to be prepared, he decided very long ago.

Refusing Geralt’s help, Jaskier carries the chest on his own. It’s an awkward shuffle, but he makes it all the way over to the weapon’s shed. He’d rather not fiddle about with his clothes outside in the cold. He’ll have to change into the underthings that were also packed into the chest; clothes _meant_ for being worn under a set of armor.

He changes into them quickly. Hm, they’re quite….black. And baggy. He supposes he can’t do much about the color, but he’ll have to find a tailor who can take care of the size. He’ll remember it for when they leave for spring. There aren’t any boots packed along with things, so he’ll have to find a good set on his own at some point.

He starts with the greaves. Those are easy; just a set of ties and clasps to do up, along his calves. Not too much trouble.

The chest piece gives him trouble. It’s rather easy to fit it over his head, of course, but the issue is doing all the ties and buckles. They’re all along his sides, which makes it almost impossible to get a decent look at them. He fumbles blindly with them.

“Want me to help?” Geralt offers, sitting on another crate in the shed.

He’s smiling. _Grinning,_ actually, like he’s having the time of his bloody life.

“No, thank you,” Jaskier tells him. “I want to do it on my own. You do it all the time! Can’t be too hard, right?”

He manages to find one of the strings then feels around for the other.

“Yes, I do it on my own, but I _trained_ for it,” Geralt reminds. “Took me ages to learn how to do it. You can’t expect to get it perfectly on the first try. You have to practice.”

Jaskier sighs. _“Fine,_ show me.”

Geralt gets up. He shows him how to do the laces, then the buckles. Jaskier takes a shot at the spaulders on his own, but find just about as difficult as the previous piece. He gives up with a sigh and lets Geralt do those too. He can do the vambraces alone, at least. He gets the gloves on, and fastened the daggers to either hips. Silver on the left, steel on the right.

He turns around and smiles at Geralt.

“How do I look?”

Geralt doesn’t smile. He stares.

“What’s the matter?” the bard asks, suddenly quite self-conscious. “Do I look that bad?”

Geralt almost jumps him.

He grabs Jaskier by the armor and pulls him in with a hard tug. Their mouths crash together; Geralt moans against him. Jaskier is certainly caught off guard, but with the fire in this kiss, how can he say no? He feels a pair of big hands grab at his leather-clad ass.

 _“_ You dirty little whore, do you have _any_ idea how _sexy_ you look right now? Look like a Witcher, wearing this armor, those daggers?” Geralt growls, mouthing against Jaskier’s parted lips. “Almost wish you could take one of our potions, make this skin even more pale, turn those pretty eyes black, turn you _feral_ under me and _let me fuck it out of you.”_

Jaskier can stop the desperate moan that leaves him.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard right now,” Geralt adds, a sharp nip at Jaskier’s bottom lip.

Grabbed by the armor again, Jaskier is turned around and shoved. He stumbles forward; shoved again and again, until he falls against a table along the wall. He sweeps aside all the sharpening stones and shit of that sort, not caring at they fall to the floor. He moans as the leather trousers are tugged harshly down his legs.

He hears Geralt spit. Half-slicked fingers push into him; he whines at the drag of the small spots of dry skin, but he falls apart when the fingers brush his prostate and pleasure flares through his system. He reaches down, fuck, the leather glove feels amazing on his cock. Geralt spits more, gets him wet, eases the slide, scissors him open quickly, _fuck, he’s eager._

“Never thought when you first started annoying the piss outta me that I’d see you like _this,”_ Geralt grunts.

Jaskier moans. “C’mon, give it to me, fuck the prep, just do it,” he orders.

Geralt gives no arguments. He pulls out. Again, he spits. Then, his amazing fucking cock is thrusting hard into his tight opening, and he could cry it feels so good. Geralt takes a good hold of the back of Jaskier’s armor. He pulls Jaskier back with it, pulls him onto his cock, holds him in place.

He does it so hard, so fast. The table shakes under them, rattling and banging against the wall, and Jaskier moans like a whore at every single thrust.

“Forgot how sexy the armor is,” Geralt says.

He leans in over Jaskier, mouthing at his neck, still clinging tight to the leather of the armor.

“Used to get so fucking hard for it in training, seeing all the older boys get their own armor, rubbed my fucking cock raw for that shit,” he talks like it’s nothing, but Jaskier could _die_ for _that_ mental image. “And _you,_ fuck, you look even fucking better than any of them, and _you’re mine.”_

 _“Ah, ah, ah, ah!”_ is all the noise Jaskier can make.

_“C’mere!”_

Geralt pulls _hard_ on the armor. Jaskier is pulled away from the table, whining when Geralt slips out of him. He’s turned back around to face Geralt, taken in another kiss, and before he knows it, Geralt has picked him up and has him pressed to the wall. Jaskier cries out as Geralt fills him again.

It’s a quick, hard fuck, nothing slow or romantic about it; they don’t care about _romance,_ they hunt pleasure.

Jaskier cums all too quickly. The sight of his cum staining the armor seems to drive Geralt out of his mind. He breaks down, thrusting into Jaskier another few times, then cums as well.

 _Fuck,_ if he’d known all it took to get Geralt to fuck him like _that_ was for Jaskier to put on some armor, he would’ve done it ages ago.

*

It’s a slow day.

It’s pissing down rain outside so training is rather out of the question.

Jaskier very quickly decides to try out a few of his new songs. It feels like it’s been an eternity since he played! Training somehow just took over most of the day, then afterwards he mostly ended up spending time with his lovely Witchers, both activities leaving him rather too tired to sing and play.

But today, he has _all day_ just for lute.

She’s a welcome comfort in his hands.

Training is actually quite fun, yes, but it can’t hold a candle to this pretty girl.

The music comes so easily. The strings feel perfect under his fingers. He reads the words as they are scribbled in his notebook, singing them to himself as he finds a melody for them. He makes a note when he finds a good string of chords. He needs to have these ready as soon as possible! They will be leaving Kaer Morhen some time next week, now that the snow has started to melt away and spring is budding.

He feels like himself.

All this other stuff, it’s him too, yes, but this, the music, the writing, the figuring out how to bend the words to the music, _that_ is him in his purest form. This is what he loves most in the world (after Geralt, that is).

_Speak of the devil and he shalt appear!_

Geralt comes through the door. He looks a little shaken as he enters, hiding something behind his back.

“There’s my favorite Witcher,” Jaskier says sweetly.

Geralt smiles. “And now you’re _my_ favorite Witcher.”

Jaskier almost screams at how sweet of a statement that is.

“What’s that you hiding there?” he asks, though, distracting him from the desire to squeal.

Geralt clears his throat. He steps further into the room. He pulls out the object, which turns out to be a long metal rod with some sort of symbol fixed to one end, like a branding iron. Geralt sits down on the edge of the bed next to Jaskier.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks.

Jaskier closes his notebook and sets his lute aside. He sits up straight, taking the iron as it is offered to him. Yes, it appears to be just what he thought it was, some sort of branding iron. He doesn’t recognize the tiny symbol that makes up the brand itself, though. It looks like some sort of rune, but he doesn’t know what it means.

“It looks like branding iron, I suppose?”

Geralt clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s… Well. It’s from back when there were more of us. It…wasn’t uncommon for a Witcher to bond with another from his school. Fall in love, I mean. We spend our entire lives together here and when we leave, we’re always alone. Can’t hardly blame anyone for taking what’s available, I suppose.”

Jaskier smiles. It’s a nice thought, he decides. That even the Witchers of yore could find love now and then.

“And…if they both consented to the union, they…could be wedded.”

The bard’s brow furrows. It’s a lovely story, but he doesn’t see why Geralt is telling him all this.

“Then there would be a ceremony, swearing themselves to each other, and then…they’d be branded. With this.”

_Branded?_

“It’s the rune that symbolizes time. When they swore themselves, they would say… _until the end of time._ Meaning they would be together forever, even after death.”

“That’s lovely,” Jaskier says softly. “The branding seems a bit… _dramatic,_ perhaps, but then again, everything about Witchers is quite dramatic, I’ve learned.”

“I… Now that you’re…a Witcher. What I’m trying to say is-… Or, I mean, what I _want_ to say is that I-…”

_Oh._

Okay, Jaskier can see where this is going.

“Now that I’m a Witcher, you’re asking if I want to marry you,” he says flatly, stunned. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Geralt clears his throat. He meets Jaskier’s eyes, then nods.

It takes no more than a handful of minutes to prepare for the ceremony. Geralt runs to find Vesemir, Jaskier takes off in the opposite direction to find Lambert and Eskel. Before Jaskier knows it, they’re all gathered in the courtyard, Geralt and Jaskier are removing their shirts, and two identical branding irons lay in the fire-pit. Vesemir gives them all a very quick run-down of how it’s going to work, then they start.

Geralt and Jaskier stand facing each other, a small distance between them. On one side, stands Vesemir to officiate. Eskel and Lambert wait by the fire as witnesses.

“It is said that Witchers do not feel,” Vesemir begins. "That is untrue. We feel _differently._ We feel more _intensely,_ more _honestly,_ and more _sincerely.”_

Jaskier’s eyes burn; he’s going to start crying again and no one can stop him.

“And when we love, we love with all that we are. Such love is rare, even in our long lives, but when we find it, we must treasure it. This union is a symbol of that love, the love that you share. Witcher, offer your hand.”

Geralt offers his left hand.

“If you love this Witcher with all that you are, take his hand.”

Jaskier takes the outstretched hand tightly in his own.

“Bard, offer your hand.”

In return, he offers his other hand.

“If you love this bard with all that you are, take his hand.”

Geralt takes it, and holds it just as tight.

“With hands joined, so _you_ are joined. _Until the end of time.”_

Geralt swallows. “Until the end of time.”

“Until the end of time,” Jaskier agrees, choking down the tears still.

“And so, show us the love that you share.”

The kiss Jaskier shares with Geralt is soft and chaste, all that is needed to show what they share. And when it is done, they let go with one hand and turn towards the fire-pit.

Eskel and Lambert pull the irons from the fire.

Jaskier grits his teeth and squeezes Geralt’s hand.

It doesn’t register as pain, at first. For a moment, an icy coldness washes over him.

Then, in an instant, the cold turns on its head and becomes hellfire.

But just as it flips, the brand is removed.

He tears his eyes open, sagging against Geralt. He looks down at his own chest. Despite the pain, he can’t help but smile when he sees the rune burned into his flesh, just under where his medallion hangs. When he looks to Geralt, his mark is in the same place.

Despite the pain, he smiles.

And Jaskier smiles.

His heart races for Geralt. His heart will _always_ race for Geralt.

Maybe they really will be together until the end of time.

Jaskier hopes so.

**Author's Note:**

> and now, i start working on that lets-go-to-the-coast fic lol


End file.
